


heal those weary bones

by shadowdance



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 03:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13045107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowdance/pseuds/shadowdance
Summary: ("Sure looks I killed someone, doesn't it?")Even with grievous injuries, Python believes he can count on Silque to heal him.





	heal those weary bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunariaans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunariaans/gifts).



> it seems i can only write fe15 fics at one in the morning...interesting. i've kept it in my drafts for a bit tho since i wanted to rewrite some things.
> 
> for lunariaans bc she's writing an amazing python/silque fic, which you should go check out!!

i.

She doesn’t ask about his sprained wrist, just takes it lightly in her hands and probes it with her finger. Python winces; she doesn’t notice.

“And what happened here?” Her tone isn’t accusing or rude, but Python feels shame creep up his neck anyways. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Er…got into a fight.”

She raises an eyebrow, still looking more curious than mad. Which is fine—Python has heard the rumors: she likes to gossip, likes to poke at the rumor mill. Python can’t really be mad, since he’s like that. It might be the only thing they’re similar in.

“With whom?” she asks. Her eyes drift up to his.

Python shrugs. His free hand drops to his lap, and he scrambles for an excuse—but Silque is staring at him with wide eyes and all of his lies falter on his tongue. “Forsyth.”

Silque drops his hand and shakes her head, already moving to get her staff. “And why were you fighting with Forsyth?”

Python shrugs. He doesn’t really _want_ to tell her, but it comes tumbling out in a rush anyways. “He was nagging me about not giving proper respect to nobles—said I’m too casual around Clive or something. So I told Forsyth that sometimes _he_ acts like a noble, ‘cause he acts like there’s a stick rammed up his—” He stops abruptly, unsure if it’s too vulgar for her. She looks at him inquiringly, imploring him to go on, but Python isn’t sure how to finish.

“Anyways,” he says finally, unsure what kind of response would be appropriate. This is hard; he’s never really filtered himself around people before. “We fight all the time.”

Silque nods, and then a soft smile appears on her face. It’s unexpected, and Python is momentarily taken aback. “The villagers fight often, too,” she says. “It supposedly helps them…blow off steam? That’s the phrase Gray uses. One time Alm came in here with a new wound. He hadn’t sustained it in battle, and he wouldn’t tell me how he got it.”

“Huh.”

Silque shrugs her shoulders, like it’s out of her control. “They like to fight for silly reasons. Maybe that is why Faye became a cleric. Hold still. I’m going to be using my staff.”

It doesn’t hurt _him_. But her hand jerks when she uses magic, and Python knows because she’s holding his wrist. The pain in his wrist fades away, and Python watches Silque draw herself back, her hands shaking. He narrows his eyes.

“Shit,” he says. “You didn’t have to use your damn staff.”

She shrugs. “You are an archer. A sprained wrist could affect you more than someone else. But for the future…I wouldn’t suggest coming with such silly injuries. I already have Gray and Tobin for that.”

“Right,” Python says, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, definitely.”

As he leaves the tent, he makes a mental note to talk to Gray and Tobin about _not bothering the healer with stupid injuries._ He tucks it in the back of his mind.

 

ii.

“I am assuming you were in a fight?”

It’s a bloody nose this time. Python presses a handkerchief against his nose and feels the blood soak through anyways. The best treatment is an ice pack, but they don’t have one, so he’s waiting it out. He doesn’t think his nose is broken, which is good, but he’s definitely going to have a bruise.

“It wasn’t with Forsyth,” he says; his voice is slightly muffled with the handkerchief pressed against his face. Silque throws him a look so disbelieving that he feels offended.

“Who was it, then?”

Python leans forward and pinches his nose, feeling the blood gush out. “I got it from the battle. Did ya see the snot-nosed noble, the one struttin’ on the battlefield like he owned it?”

Silque blinks, different emotions flickering across her face, before finally settling on shock. “The silver-haired one, with Lord Berkut?”

“Yeah. His name’s Fernand.” Python tentatively removes his handkerchief, waits a few seconds. No blood comes pouring out, so he puts the handkerchief down. “We got into a spat before he defected…not that it was out of the ordinary or anything. He didn’t kill me today, but I guess he wanted to spill some of my blood.”

Silque takes the handkerchief from him. It’s still smeared with his blood, but she merely tosses it to the laundry pile. “What did you fight about before, then?”

Python isn’t sure how to answer. There are many reasons as to why he and Fernand clashed: they were too different, Python never respected him, Fernand hated commoners. Fernand was always dogging Python’s footsteps, hissing and spitting cruel words, throwing the dirtiest looks at Python, hinting he wouldn’t mind if Python dropped dead in battle. Python didn’t care; he could handle it. But the night after Mathilda was captured, Fernand twisted his tactics and began spouting sharp words about someone else.

“He hurt Forsyth,” Python says quietly. It’s not exactly true, but it’s close enough. Forsyth still isn’t aware of what happened, and Python won that scuffle, anyways. Nobody else knows about that, and he’s not going to start with the _healer_ , who he barely even knows.

Silque’s lips part, and Python wonders what she thinks of that, what she’s going to _ask_ —but then she drops her gaze and turns back to the laundry.

“You may want to wash the blood off,” she says without turning around. Python glances at his palms, streaked with blood from his nosebleed, and he snorts.

“Sure looks like I killed someone, doesn’t it?” he asks, and holds his bloody palms up.

Silque bites her lip, and then she looks away.

 

iii.

In a battle, a mercenary finds and corners him. Python searches for a weak spot in the enemy’s clothes, but then the mercenary lunges and scrapes his blade against Python’s arm. It’s not a deep cut, but his sleeve tears and blood wells out of the wound, flowing down his arm freely. Python drops his bow, cursing, and the mercenary is about to attack again when his eyes pop out, his shoulders shudder, and his mouth opens and closes like a fish. He sinks to the ground, body feebly twitching, and the sword clatters on the grass. Python stares, and then flicks his eyes upwards at his savior.

“Hi,” Silque says breathlessly. She daintily hops over the mercenary and Python can’t help think that just looks _wrong_. “Let me heal your arm.”

Python doesn’t put up any resistance, but he has to look away when she raises her staff and murmurs a prayer. His wound sews itself back together, the skin not even bearing a scar. Silque pushes her hair back, mouth tight, bangs sticking to her forehead. She has gotten better at hiding her own pain.

“All done,” she says, although she fidgets nervously, like there is more she wants to say. Unexpectedly, her fingers brush against where his wound once was, and it doesn’t  _hurt_ but Python still shivers. The ghost of a wound—he’d rather not have anyone touch it right now.

“Don’t ya got more people to save?” he asks, jerking backwards. Hurt flickers in Silque’s eyes; she’s not good at hiding her emotions. She drops her hand.

“Well, yes, but I want to make sure-”

Python waves his hand. “Well, don’t just stand here talking to ol’ Python. I can handle myself. _Go._ ”

She blinks at him, her hands clutching her staff so hard that her knuckles turn white. Finally, she murmurs out a goodbye and runs off, heading towards Faye. Python shakes his head and takes an arrow out of his quiver. He feels no pain when he draws the arrow back; his wound is gone, so there shouldn’t _be_ any pain.

(After the battle, though—there is still blood on his tunic, blood from a nonexistent wound. It doesn’t come out as easily as he thought it would.)

 

iv.

A burn stretches across Python’s chest, and no matter how he moves, his chest feels like it’s on fire. He took a vulnerary during the battle, but the pain throbbed along with his heartbeat and he didn’t feel good, so afterwards Silque dragged him in the medical tent to properly heal him.

“I like how us archers are pitted against witches,” Python says, trying to breathe lightly so his chest doesn’t hurt. Silque is dunking a rag in a bucket full of water. “I mean, we can hit ‘em out of range, but then they’re gonna target us. And we can’t run that fast.”

Silque says nothing, just applies the rag to the burnt area around his chest. Python flinches and digs his fingernails into his palms, feeling his nails break the skin. Inhaling is hard. That’s not good.

“I took a vulnerary,” Python says, wincing. He’s trying not to breathe too heavily or else his chest will stab with pain. “Although it still feels like someone’s pressing coals against my chest.”

Silque sighs lightly. She doesn’t look up at him, just keeps her eyes on the burn. “Well, magic is…different. Lightning and fire are easy enough to heal, but the pain can still linger, and if not treated right away, you may suffer horribly. All magic does that, in the end.”

“Huh?”

“It seeps under your skin,” she explains. “That is what kills people—not the impact. Lightning and fire may leave marks, since they are beginner spells, but most magic doesn’t show any sign of attacking. It just digs into your skin and wounds you from the inside.”

Python cocks his head to the side. She gets up and retrieves some ointment, and Python thinks about the spells she’s cast— _Seraphim_ and _Nosferatu_ , she calls them. Nosferatu sounds uglier and he’s seen the after-effects—the bodies that look like Terrors, life leeched out of them. He could jab her with these facts, point them out, but that would be rude, and she _is_ the one healing him.

Silque comes back with the ointment and her staff. She says, “It is harder to heal magic, because there is no open wound. Mila’s light is able to draw out any kind of wound, though.” Her face shines brightly, as it always does when she mentions her goddess, and Python shifts his gaze to the ceiling so she won’t see him roll his eyes.

“Right, thank Mila for me,” he says sardonically. “You sure there won’t be any lingering flames in my veins, though?”

Silque’s shoulders sag, and all of a sudden she looks years older than she actually is. She looks older than Python, even though she’s only five or six years younger than him. “I am quite sure,” she says. “Fire doesn’t linger long, it just…”

“Hurts like hell.” Python grins. Silque does not.

“Hold still,” she instructs, holding her staff out. A warm light spreads across Python’s chest, lessening the pain, but he doesn’t look down. He knows how the skin will look: untainted by war, no battle scars left.

“Isn’t that magic?” he asks, and Silque raises an eyebrow. She nods, and he crosses his arms. “Well, does _Mila’s_ magic get into my bones and heal me from the inside or whatever?”

She throws him a flat look, but Python swears he sees a tired smile tug at the corners of her lips.

“Put your shirt back on,” is all she says.

 

v.

He wakes up and his mouth is dry. His whole body feels sore, and he’s draped on a cot. He doesn’t see anyone in the tent, but if Python strains his ears he can hear someone talking. It sounds like Forsyth; he sounds worried. Python feels a knot tighten in his stomach, physically hurting him. Wait, no—that’s pain. His whole body is aching, but more so on his left side. When he tries to sit up, a jolt of pain runs through him, and he almost cries out. He falls back on the cot, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

“You’re awake!”

Silque has never sounded so relieved in Python’s memory. She beams up at him, but Python can see the worry lines still etched on her face, the blood stained on her robes.

“I’m so relieved,” she says, exhaling. “I wasn’t sure if I was able to save you—there was a lot of blood.”

Python looks at the ground and takes note of the red puddles splashed on the tent. Those weren’t there the other day. “What the hell happened?”

He watches Silque’s smile droop slowly, her face falling back in to the lines of worry. “You don’t…remember?”

“Is there something I should?”

“I found you unconscious,” she explains. Her hands clasp together, and she wrings them worriedly. “I don’t know what happened, but there were…multiple wounds. I think a witch attacked you, and someone stabbed you. That was…a pretty deep cut.”

Python’s hand flutters to his stomach. _Oh_ , he thinks, dread sinking in his heart. But he forces out a chuckle, which makes Silque startle; he pretends not to notice. “Huh, guess everyone had a bone to pick with me, eh?”

“It’s not funny,” Silque snaps, anger flaring up in her eyes. Python immediately quiets down and sobers up, and she drops in the cot across from him, propping her elbows on her knees. Uncharacteristic.

“You were on the brink of death,” she says, her voice low and shaky. “I am afraid that my healing didn’t quite work…”

Python snorts. “Did your goddess’s magic fail you?”

She recoils backwards immediately, caving in on herself, and for one second Python feels bad. But then he shifts, and something sharp shoots from his left side. His hand drifts over the pain, and Silque’s eyes follow his hand. She swallows.

“You had grievous wounds,” she says. “I…I hope there won’t be any major setbacks. I was able to heal you, but it took quite a lot of energy.”

“Bully for you,” Python says tiredly. When he shifts, pain prickles through his body. “You _really_ should get some sleep.”

Silque’s eyes dart back and forth. “You will be sore,” she says quietly, watching Python move around on the cot. “It’s going to hurt for a little bit.”

“Wonderful,” Python says. His voice sounds angry, brittle, and he doesn’t know why. Silque doesn’t miss the anger in his tone, and her eyes drop downwards. Python sighs and tries to soften his next words. “Look, you’re a damn good healer, so I’m not worried.”

“If any more magic works its way into your body,” Silque says, like she’s not hearing him, “it can _kill you._ ”

There’s a pause as Python absorbs this.

“It’s nothing different than getting an arrow to the arm,” he says, frowning slightly. Silque looks like she wants to toss her hands up and scream, but she’s too polite for that. Instead, she tightens her jaw and mulls over her words, and when she speaks, it’s in a controlled manner.

“What I’m saying is that there is still some lingering pain,” she says slowly. Her hands are balled into fists, nestled in her lap. “And I fear it might affect your battle performance. Get some rest; you need it.”

With that, she stands up, her robes sweeping as she leaves the tent. Python watches her go, and then shakes his head.

“Crazy girl,” he mutters, and tries to roll over—but his side protests in pain, so he gives up.

 

vi.

Magic is seeping under his skin, unraveling his veins and disintegrating his bones. Python staggers away from the witch, choking and sputtering on magic. All he can smell is blood, and his vision is already blurring, fading in and out. His legs give out, and he collapses on the floor of Nuibaba’s mansion.

 _So this is what Silque meant_ , he thinks, and he wants to laugh but it just scrapes against his throat. His body feels vulnerable, poison snaking its way through his bloodstream. He’ll be dead, but it’s going to be slow.

He hopes Forsyth isn’t there to watch.

Someone grabs his shoulder, and Python braces himself for Forsyth’s expression. He doesn’t want to see Forsyth’s face crumble into fear and shock and disbelief; it’s something he never wanted to see, ever. But when he forces his eyes open—with difficulty, as it seems to require a lot of energy—he catches a glimpse of blue instead of green. An ugly groan escapes his mouth.

This alternative is not much better.

“Hey, Silque,” Python says; his words sound twisted and mangled as they leave his throat. “Want me to show you how to die?”

She recoils as though his words have physically pained her. “Python-”

“Don’t bother,” Python rasps out. He would make his words sharper if he could, but he’s too tired to do so. The words are poisonous by themselves, anyways. “It’s poisoning me from the inside out, you told me.”

“I can heal you,” Silque protests. Python almost smiles at that, but then pain bursts on his left side and he gasps instead. The magic found his old wounds and is tearing them apart.

“I said…don’t bother. I’m already half-dead, and that witch…hell, I’m an easy target,” he says. The smell of blood is growing stronger, but it’s mixed with something else—death, maybe. If that's a thing.

“You are going to _die_ ,” Silque says, her voice trembling. Her headdress has been knocked askew, her hair sticking up in different directions. Her breathing is coming out ragged and she looks frightened, and Python recalls how she seemed so much older in the medical tent. But now she seems so much younger, helpless and terrified, all of nineteen years old.

“I’m dead either way,” Python forces out, and it sounds funny to him. He tries to laugh again, but the sound is brittle, his smile falling halfway there. His body is feeling numb, the poison succumbing to a coldness spreading in his body, and he knows the end is near. “Take care of Forsyth, would you?”

“ _Python_ ,” she says again, with more conviction. She looks scared, leaning forward with her staff, but it isn’t glowing with Mila’s magic. She seems helpless, like she knows the situation is dire. But at least she isn’t trying; that is the last thing he wants her to do.

“Time to start building a coffin,” Python manages. He feels the numbness spread in his chest, his heartbeat beginning to slow.

She looks at him with wide eyes. Python notices that her eyes are the color of storm clouds, gray and dark. Terror is the lightning in her eyes today. It’s funny how he’s only noticing this now.

“Don’t,” she says uncertainly. “ _Don’t_ —”

But everything around him is turning to static and he knows that it’s too late. The cold spreads across his chest like icy fingers, pushing against his heart as if to stop it. Python feels a breath rattle in his chest, and he realizes that he’s going to die here, on the floor of a witch’s mansion, next to a pretty girl who has only ever healed him. He’s not going to die by his best friend’s side, and Python doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

His fingers press into something soft and small.

He doesn’t register that it’s Silque’s hand until his heart stutters once, twice—and then no more.


End file.
